Sat, December 12, 2074 10:05 am: The House of Fallen Trees- Gothier, Pleasantview
Isabella's journeys into public dwindled from the moment she first set foot in her new home, and the burial plot scandal had sealed her front door for the foreseeable future. Even prior to the scandal, her mind began to stage a full-scale revolt against the outside world. In the crowded Pleasantview streets, her thoughts scattered and sounds amplified. She could hear every voice, every leaf, every car horn and bird song. At least at home, far back from the main roads, she could be left alone to her thoughts. She brushed a ripe grape with the tips of her fingers. So much depended on such a tiny thing. Such a dark and fragile thing.
Horace seized the Fiorello Vineyard for reasons that were spurious at best. The shock of that incident had begun to dissipate, though she was not sure that J.L.'s relationship with Horace would ever mend. For her part, it had been easy to come to terms with the loss because she already had everything that she needed. The small patch of grapes that had been planted in Arbormoor soil were spreading like wild fire at Tellerman Farm. It wouldn't be long now.
In her dreams, time ran backwards. Blades of wheat returned to their stalks from the crook of the farmer’s blade. They swayed for a moment in the breeze and then froze. They froze and never grew old. They froze and never died.
“Izzy! Yoo-hoo, Izzy!” A woman’s voice called from just beyond the conservatory. Apparently, Isabella had not sealed her front door tightly enough. "Are you in? One of the maids said that I might find you back here. What a jungle you've grown!"
Daphne Dreamer's high heeled shoes beat out an uneven rhythm on Isabella's ceramic tiled floor. Tap, halt, tap-tap, halt. Isabella could hear every displaced atom where the rubber met the earthenware. "My, my. I had no idea that you have such a green thumb, but I could certainly use a few pointers. Truly, everything that I touch withers just like that." Daphne snapped her fingers for emphasis. "Too much light, not enough light. Too much water, not enough water. Too much wind, not enough circulation. Too few nutrients, wrong blasted fertilizer!" Daphne chuckled to herself and she sidled up behind Isabella. "It's equal parts science and art, don't you think? Not everyone has the knack." Isabella turned around wearily. She could not find the energy to handle Daphne on the best of days.
"Do you need something?" Isabella did not mean to be rude. Or maybe she did. Daphne fiddled with her wedding ring.
"Why no indeed. I only wanted to stop by to chat. We are family now, after all, and it just does not seem right that you should be cooped up in here. I mean, I know that times are hard right now, and you're under a lot of scrutiny, and Don's death was a blow to us all but you have to get out. Live your life! You should be out having cocktails and facials and telling the world where to shove it. You're a Goth. You own everything and everyone from here to Alpinloch, and it's about time that you remembered it." Isabella tilted her head to the side, taking Daphne in. Who was this black-laced vision of frivolity, this alien creature tapping her way into Isabella's most private of rooms, exhuming Don's dead body and imploring her to get a spa treatment all in the same breath? When Isabella did not respond, Daphne placed a hand on her shoulder, her eyes brimming with semi-genuine concern.
"You know, Ripp and I are behind you all the way. No matter what happens, no matter what anyone says, no matter if the state takes you to task. We are here for you." Isabella shrugged Daphne off. She did not want to admit that the investigation was taking its toll. Television reporters were already cackling with glee over the fact that her husband's name reduced by one syllable was "jail". She did not live in fear of an arrest-- She expected it, but nothing could happen before the distillation was complete. She could not abandon the task now, not when an end to all forms of disease was so close. Her father's work would change the world. Everything else was shadows and dust.
A team of experts was examining the bones, and questions were being raised. Jon Smith-Tricou had been a busy little bee, pollinating flowers for miles around and collecting the nectar that he fed to his queen. Dr. Tricou sacrificed his own Townie bastards in an attempt to patch up his grandson's damaged psyche. Isabella knew this because the walls knew it, and they whispered to her. Sometimes, if she listened closely enough, she could hear Kvornan Tricou's axe sliding listlessly down the staircase as he dragged it into the basement where his mother-in-law awaited that fatal stroke. The blood is the life, and it carries like the flood. What it carries is the secret. The Sheut of Proximus Deus knew the secret, and somewhere out there he was living the life that failed to save his son.
"Izzy, are you alright? You have a queer look." What time was it? Isabella looked past Daphne with bleary eyes. There used to be a clock against that wall, she was sure of it. A gust of wind from the floor fan lifted the ends of Daphne's hair, making her head look like a child's drawing of the sun. Isabella choked back a laugh. It must have looked to Daphne like a sob. "You poor dear. I know why you spend so much time in here. You do spend a lot of time in here, don't you? It's soothing to be surrounded by all these plants, isn't it? Let me get you a stool." Isabella dropped her fists at her side, asserting her personal space.
"Daphne, I'm fine. This whole thing has just been a bit too much. How about this-- How about you give me some good news for a change?" At that, Daphne's stupid face lit up as though Isabella had just made the most exciting suggestion of her stupid life. Daphne bit her lip, transferring some of her lipstick to her teeth.
"Actually, I had hoped to wait to tell you at dinner next week with the rest of the family but what the hey, right? Izzy, I'm expecting." It took a moment for this information to sink in. Her initial reaction was to smile supportively if perhaps a bit unconvincingly. Then she began to change gears. Daphne's pregnancy would afford her a child of the blood, and not just her blood but something far older, something far richer. Every Dreamer in Pleasantview carried it-- a blessing and a curse. Isabella knew this because the walls knew it. Daphne's timing could not have been better. Isabella sent up a prayer of thanks, in silence.
"That's wonderful news. Congratulations, Daph." Daphne brimmed over with delight.
"Thanks and, oh! Damn." Daphne's cell phone was alarming. She pulled it out of her pocket and flipped the lid. "I was meant to be at Phoenix's ten minutes ago. I'm sorry, I really must fly." She leaned in to kiss Isabella on the cheek. "Give J.L. and the children my love. Take care of yourself, Izzy. I mean that." Isabella mustered a brave smile, and Daphne pranced out of the room. It had been a fruitful morning after all.
Isabella returned to the grapes. The host would need an emotional tie to Daphne's baby. Any tie would do.
A breath of cold air soaked her to the core, and it was not generated by the floor fan. Isabella kept the temperature of this room at a balmy seventy-six degrees. The only possibility that she could imagine was open window. But when she turned around to find the source of the draft, what she saw nearly stopped her heart.
An elderly Fae woman dressed all in black had somehow manifested behind the potting bench. Her back was crooked and her eyes smoldered. Isabella tried to cry out in shock but could only manage a strange creaking from the back of her throat. And then the old woman spoke.
"Her child is perfect. You will do well with her." The old woman's voice was little better than a death rattle. It was the voice that she heard from the walls. Isabella composed herself.
"Who are you?" The old woman bowed her head.
"I believe you know who I am, Mrs. Tellerman. Even without the blood of the body, the swamp is indissoluble. My light will never wane, which is fortunate because you and I have much work to do." Isabella backed herself into the corner, shaking her head emphatically from side to side. It couldn't be. "Your fear is ill-founded and inappropriate," the old woman said. "The Destroyer calls you into his service. You have been chosen, Mrs. Tellerman. It is an honor."
Fri, October 16, 2074 7:08 am: Lothario Hall- Rawling Hills, Pleasantview
Adelaide stuffed the yellowing letter back into the top drawer of her father's bureau. She completed the gesture hastily, unceremoniously slamming the drawer shut. Why would he keep something so incriminating all of these years? And now that he was gone, what was she supposed to do with it? Destroy it for the sake of his memory? Preserve it for the sake of history? It might have given Alex a sense of closure on the matter but he had been so young at the time... Adelaide tried to assemble her thoughts as they scattered downwards to her fingers, forcing them to tremble. She had trusted him.
"Oh God," she choked, bringing her hands to her mouth. The sound emerged from somewhere intensely private; somewhere that stoic Adelaide thought had either atrophied or never existed at all. People always whispered their suspicions but nothing was ever proven and her faith in her father never wavered. Her father. Her father who didn't go fishing because he thought it cruel. Her father who used to slip jokes into her school lunches. Her father who had loved her generally unlovable mother. More than loved, he worshipped her. But lest Adelaide forget, he was also her father who had been born into the worst sort of poverty and who was subjected to abuses that he never spoke to anyone about. He was her father who drank and smoked and cursed and laughed with all the abandon of a hyena. But Adelaide could have never imagined this to be true of him. He was a murderer. Maybe she was over-thinking but all of the disparate parts of her knowledge were pieced together by this letter. She knew that he had done it.
Adelaide was startled out of her thoughts when she heard her mother calling from the stairs, "I'm still waiting for those cufflinks!" Adelaide wiped her face and clenched her teeth in supreme annoyance. How could she see that woman in her state? She grabbed the cufflinks that she had tossed onto the bed just before discovering the letter. Adelaide had given those cufflinks to her father for his forty-seventh birthday and he had worn them everyday since. Adelaide and her mother decided that he should have liked to be buried in them.
"I'm coming," she shouted back. Adelaide's father was dead and now there was no one to stand up for Adelaide when her fire-breathing mother lashed her reptilian tongue. Adelaide stepped out into the corridor. Her eyes narrowed at the sight of her mother ascending the staircase. Dina Goth-Lothario. Dina of the Three Rings would marry again. It was a habit that her advanced age probably hadn't cured. Adelaide didn't know whether her mother knew about her father's involvement in Bella Bachelor-Goth's disappearance but she had her vague suspicions. She outstretched her hand to Dina and as Dina reached for the cufflinks therein, a crumpled letter unfolded in Adelaide's photographic memory, carefully scrawled in pale blue ink:
My Dearest Don,
I am writing to thank you for the sympathy that you have shown me in this difficult time. You cannot know how your concern has helped me to cope with my mother's disappearance. You will be aggrieved to learn that she has been pronounced dead. Her car still has not been found. They are dragging the lake as I write this. Please understand that I am not certain how I could have gotten through this without your support and affection.
Aunt Dina is pregnant. Dad is already planning their wedding. It's absolutely sickening. She wants her husband's money and between you and me, I think she has every right to it. Dad doesn't care what she wants. He's just looking to replace his old trophy wife with a new one. He's talking about shipping Alex off to the Academy in the fall. Alex is too little to leave home. I'm whining now, I know but somehow you've become a sounding board for me. I really didn't mean for this letter to turn out like this.
Since I am getting personal, I might as well tell you that I know what went on between you and Mom. We fought over it. I was dreadful to her that night. I'm the reason she ran out and I blame myself for her disappearance. I've never told anyone that before. Not even the police. And what's worse- I understand how she felt now. I think she might have killed herself. I need you more than ever. See me soon if this letter hasn't scared you off. I miss you terribly, Don.
Yours,
Sandy
Fri, October 16, 2074 7:25 am: 88 Wilkins Ave.- Camden, Pleasantview
Elise Mindelsohn had a recurring dream. In it, she was the queen of a rural country where time ran backwards. She saw the sun rise in the west and set in the east. She saw raindrops slipping from the grass, rising weightlessly into to sky. She saw a peasant returning stalks of grain to the earth with great, backwards strokes of the scythe. Elise walked backwards along the coast, pulling pebbles from the air that had been regurgitated by the sea. She laid each stone individually on the ground at the mouth of the forest. She skipped backwards along the forest trail until she landed at the castle gates. Ordinarily, Elise's dream ended there but this time, invisible guards opened the gates to her. Elise skipped backwards along the cobblestones and up a pale green staircase. Her father was calling to her from inside the castle.
"You're going to be late, Elise," he said. His voice was not backwards. Elise had some dim perception that she was no longer dreaming. The world faded. Her father shook her gently. "Elise," he whispered. "Arnaud is in the shower now and as soon as he comes out, I want you in there." Elise was awake enough now to feel the coolness of the cotton sheets beneath her. Sweat trickled from her forehead down onto her eyes. Her mouth was dry. Her nose was stuffed. Her fingers tingled as though she had not moved her hands all night. She groaned. A cold gust of air hit her legs as her father pulled the sheets away from her body. She wanted to request ten more minutes but couldn't find the words. And then with a jolt, Elise remembered that her father had been dead for three years. She shot upright in bed, blinking against the light and startling the figure looming above her.
"You ok? I didn't mean to scare you but it's getting late," he said. It was Vince. Elise groaned a second time, though this groan was pointed and prolonged. She fell heavily back onto the bed and smothered herself with the nearest pillow. She didn't want to go to school. She could make up something about being sick since she was sweating but she didn't want to worry her brother, who already had so much thrust upon his shoulders. Elise tossed the pillow aside and with a Herculean effort, threw her legs over the edge of the bed. Vince smiled gently. He patted her hair and kissed her moist forehead. "I'm going to go make some breakfast," he said. As he left the room, Elise rubbed her eyes. Her sister's bed stretched out before her, pillows and covers littering the floor around it. Elise wondered how she could have slept through the tantrum that must have accompanied the mess.
This was the first day back to school for the Mindelsohn children since the death of their mother, three weeks prior. Vince, who was fourteen, filed for legal guardianship over his younger siblings. Their mother had not left them much money so the house had to be sold in order to liquidate some funds. The Mindelsohns were now living in a two-bedroom rancher near the highway.
Elise looked down at her still tingling fingers, perched lightly on her knobby little knees. She sat up for Vince's benefit but she wasn't quite sure what it would take to make her place her feet on the floor, take a shower, eat breakfast, board the school bus, go to class, meet another hour, another day.
Fri, October 16, 2074 4:11 pm: Dreamer Estate- Middlebourne, Pleasantview
Maybe Daphne Dreamer was simply too old. She sat on the edge of the toilet clutching the pregnancy meter and staring intently as though she could will it into changing. She raked her fingers painfully through her tangled hair. No, age couldn't have had anything to do with it- Her stepmother had children well into her forties. Cassandra had been Daphne's age when she gave birth to Daphne's husband Ripp. Daphne had been so certain this time... Maybe it wasn't her at all, maybe it was Ripp. Either way, what good was she, what did she contribute if she couldn't get pregnant? He would divorce her and find someone else. Daphne would move back in with Lilith and Dirk, dying a dried-up wreck of an old woman.
Daphne paused. She was over-reacting. After all, did she really want a child? She wasn't exactly the mothering type. Having children was all Ripp talked about day in and day out. She should have never married. But what else was she going to do? She didn't have any special talents or skills. She couldn't very well have spent her life at Pleasant Cottage doing fuck-all. Maybe she could have moved in with her Dad and Ginny but she thought that she might have been more of a burden than a help to them.
Daphne stood up from the toilet and chucked the pregnancy test in the waste bin. Still, they had only been married for eight months. She would get dressed and head over to Lothario Hall, make herself useful. She wasn't terribly close to the Lotharios but Ian was her half-brother, Dina was Ripp's step-grandmother and Adelaide was best friends with Daphne's cousin, Sabina. The Pleasantview upper class was a very small community. Daphne had a responsibility to the Lotharios. She had yet to even express her condolences. She could make them a pasta or something. Siren Caliente had been there all day watching the baby. The only thing that Daphne could do for them was cook. Daphne hoped they liked pasta because she didn't know how to make anything else.
Fri, October 16, 2074 5:36 pm: Arbormoor Manor- Arbormoor, Pleasantview
"Where the hell have you been?" Jorge was drunk. It was nothing new but it irked Lavinia all the same.
"What do you care?" Lavinia often favored this type of retort. It was frank, brief and most importantly, rhetorical. She could walk away, ignoring whatever he had to say next. Lavinia headed for the steps without even glancing at Jorge.
He growled, "That insufferable child of yours has been wailing all afternoon. If you were any kind of mother-" Jorge was arrested in mid sentence when Lavinia made an unexpected about-face. Lavinia strode towards him, livid. She trusted him with her child for two measly hours, he got piss drunk and then dared to accuse her of neglect? This she could not walk away from. This she could not ignore. Her eyes narrowed and her lips curled into the rather fearsome snarl that she had learned from Jorge himself. She pulled back her fist and delivered the whole of her weight behind a blow that failed to land.
Despite his apparent intoxication, Lavinia did not catch Jorge off his guard. He tossed her against the wall in a manner so artless and facile that any onlooker would have known this scene to be typical of the two of them. Lavinia's back hit first, then her head. The pain shot up her spine, rang in her skull, sent her vision reeling.
Jorge flattened his palms against the wall on either side of her head, trapping her there. They stared at one another for a time, both seething. Lavinia's head throbbed but it was nothing compared to the sharp pains that she knew awaited her when she would inevitably pull away from the wall. Jorge's nostrils flared like those of a mad bull. His breath was heavily garnished with fine brandy. Lavinia smirked defiantly at him and his rage. Recently, everything that passed between them vibrated to the timbre of a raw nerve. Jorge sensed that Lavinia was leaving. She knew. Jorge released the wall and backed away slightly. He must have been feeling charitable. Any other day, he'd have hit her.
"I have nothing to say to you," he spat.
"It's just as well. I only came back for Hunter," Lavinia said. The anger wiped clean from Jorge's face to be replaced by something that looked like surprise and regret. So this was it. The eight years they'd spent shackled together in that frightening, drafty old house were drawing to a close. She couldn't bear another moment with him. Jorge's gaze dropped pitifully. A lock of hair fell across his face. For an instant, Lavinia was reminded of how handsome he was. Carefully peeling her body away from the wall, Lavinia felt the back of her head. After satisfying herself that she was not bleeding, Lavinia reached into her purse and produced a small envelope. She handed it over to Jorge. "This is my address," she said. Then she added in a rush, "It's for Macaulay." Jorge sighed heavily. He seemed to be at a loss.
"Will I ever see you again?" He avoided her stare.
"I certainly hope not." Lavinia's tone was flat. Jorge winced. Lavinia had not sought to hurt him with those words but she was glad that she did. She felt drained. Jorge had managed to tax every ounce of physical and emotional strength she possessed.
"You won't even stay to say goodbye to Macaulay?" Jorge's feet shifted.
"No. I don't have the willpower to stay here any longer than absolutely necessary. I think he'll understand," Lavinia said.
"I'm not sure that he will," Jorge grumbled. Though he had softened some, Jorge still seemed to be on edge. He would be unpredictable this way. Lavinia had to get her son and go as quickly as possible before Jorge did something appalling on a whim. She wished she could take Macaulay with her too. Lavinia pushed past Jorge and began her ascent for a second time. "Lavinia," Jorge called out to her. She paused on the staircase.
"What now," she snapped. He hesitated before speaking. Lavinia could have stood on that staircase for a thousand years and never anticipated what he said then.
"Thank you," he murmured. "For everything." The audacity and the eloquence of it nearly took her breath away. There was attachment in that voice much thicker than hatred, much thicker than love.
Fri, October 16, 2074 7:24 pm: Lucky Shack Cards and Drink- Downtown, Pleasantview
It was Friday night, the weekly meeting of what these four jokingly referred to as "The Gardening Club". There was Peter Sims, the head of the Pleasantview Agricultural Coalition. His organization acted as a liaison between the growers and distributors of all of Pleasantview's produce. There was Jean-Luc Tellerman, owner of Tellerman Farm, which was by far the largest piece of acreage in Pleasantview. There was Addison London who was, amongst other things, CEO of Pleasantview Grocery Delivery Services. And finally, there was Jack Dalton, whom London carried around with him like some sort of recherché fashion accessory.
Never having had a son and never having been one, London could not have claimed to know much about them. But sitting across from Jack Dalton, London thought with perfect clarity that the boy was everything he would have wanted his son to be. The kid was lucky enough to have been born with certain talents. Jack shuffled a deck of cards with the same mixture of assertive confidence and attentive precision that he paid to everything he did. He was dexterous and methodical. Reliable. He thought on his feet. He kept his mouth shut. He completed tasks before London even understood the necessity. He was a concealed weapon, a snake in the grass.
Addison London never had a son. He had an empire. And he had to be sure that it was left in the right hands. Jack's hands were capable, loyal and deserving. When he dealt the deck, those hands utilized a muscle memory that knew the exact amount of torque to land the cards neatly stacked in front of each player. London sometimes wondered what else such hands knew. Even though Jack was only a kid, even though he'd proven himself time and again, any man with Jack's particular talents was someone to be watchful of. But of everyone who worked for London, only the kid stood out as being the natural choice. London had come to a decision.
London inspected his hand. A royal flush. He looked up to Jack, catching the boy's stare. Jack's dark brown eyes were stony, fixed. London didn't know how he knew, but Jack had orchestrated that hand. He also knew that Jack knew that he knew. What did either of them have to gain? Pete placed his bet and Jack quietly folded. Jack ran his fingers through his hair and leaned back in his seat. Jack's cheating had nothing to do with the game or the little bit of money on the table. It had been a demonstration. Jack was not talented. He was skilled. Jack was not lucky. He controlled fate.
Sat October 17, 2074 12:05 pm: Dewilliker Preparatory Academy- Rawling Hills, Pleasantview
Troy Tellerman-Caliente paced the grounds of the Dewilliker Academy, clutching his arms to his chest to shield himself from the cold. During the day, the colored leaves paired with the autumn flowers gave the front garden of the campus a surreal shimmer that forced passers-by to pause not in admiration but in disbelief. The ground swam like a pointillist painting. The very air around the place was thick with the implausible. Troy shook his head and smirked. Never would he have pictured himself back on this unnaturally green lawn, in the middle of the night, waiting for a girl. And a Pleasant, no less.
On his arrival he greeted the iron fence like an old friend. He hoisted himself over it with one arm just as easily as he had twenty years ago. It felt like a triumph over time. Troy checked his watch. He would wait an additional five minutes before heading home. No sooner had he thought this than a tiny pair of hands closed over his eyes. A warm body pressed firmly against his back. Troy eased against it, barely perceptibly, in an unspoken display of relief. He leaned his head back to feel her feathered hair against his cheek. She was drenched in some kind of fruity smelling shampoo or alcohol-based spray. Whatever it was, he hated it. It wasn't that the scent in its self was off-putting but that it smelled insufferably juvenile.
Troy straightened his posture, leaning away from the girl. He felt like the worst sort of pervert. Sabina kept her hands clamped tightly around his eyes and followed his body with hers. She climbed to the tips of her toes and leaned her head in close to his. He felt her warm breath against his neck and he shivered. His apprehensions were not forgotten but temporarily swept away.
"Do you want me to guess," he asked. Sabina forced his head into a nod. He took her hands down from his eyes and brought them to his mouth, kissing her fingers. He sighed euphorically. "But I know your touch better than I know my own skin, Headmistress." Sabina shrieked in mock outrage, throttling Troy's shoulders with her open palms. Troy spun around and grabbed the girl by her wrists. He whispered urgently, "Shut-up, are you crazy?" He shot a furtive glance up at the window where his own son slept. Sabina smiled at him wickedly. Unlike himself, she wasn't reckless but fearless and he admired her for it. Troy lived for the moments that he spent almost cowering beneath the savage look in her eyes. Maybe it was a look that she reserved for Troy alone but by that look, he was reduced to nothing. And he had a feeling that she knew it.
"I'm sorry I'm late. The old bat was up much longer than usual," she said. Her voice was breathless. She was trembling with what seemed to be more than cold. Troy noted the graceful arch of her back, how her torso was thrust towards him. It was all he could do not to draw her closer, pull her long black hair, kiss her gently blushing lips, make certain she was real. "How did you get over the gate? I hope you didn't spear anything too valuable." Troy tilted his head to the side, giving Sabina the same smirk that he administered to his children when they asked how he knew or did something seemingly unlikely.
"I learned to clear that fence before you were born," he clucked. The words left his mouth before he'd had time to weigh them. Troy had never told anyone about his nocturnal visits to the Academy. But it was ancient history and he didn't expect Sabina to repeat any part of their cloak-and-dagger conversations. His only worry was that this was not his secret alone.
"Oh?" Sabina closed the distance between them. Her chest was now against his. Her head was upturned only inches from his own. Troy momentarily forgot what they were talking about.
"Yes... I was trying to coax your aunt Angela out of her engagement. But you see how successful I was." He wanted to leave it at that. Sabina eased away from him a bit. Her eyes fell and her mouth went slack. Though he recognized this as obvious discontent, it occurred to him that he would never know all of the subtle shades of her moods. Their relationship (if it could be called that) would not last long enough. The morality of the situation was questionable for more reasons than even Sabina knew and they could not hazard discovery forever. They'd have no proof that they had never actually done anything. Siren would take his children away without even batting an eyelid. Part of Troy felt that she would be right to do it, regardless of what he had or had not done with this seventeen-year-old girl.
The sheer risk he ran just to get her alone, the thrill of her proximity, the thoughts he trusted her with, the ache he got in his chest when he couldn't see her... Troy deserved whatever punishment befell him because at forty-six years old, he was in love for the first time. Troy wondered if Sabina knew how old he was. He hadn't a single line or wrinkle. He didn't really look a day over thirty-five. Perhaps that was what her expression meant- She was coming to the realization that he was at least as old as her aunt, therefore at least as old as her mother. No, that wasn't it.
"You sound bitter about it," she said. Troy chuckled. So that was all. Sabina thought he was still pining for a girl he hadn't really cared about in the first place. And twenty years ago! Troy stroked Sabina's cheek.
"I promise you, I'm not," he said. They stared at one another in silence for a moment. He had never told her how he felt and wondered whether it was self-evident. His fear was that if he ever said aloud that he loved her, he would never be able to stop. He thought back to the last time they had been together, 24 hours earlier. They sat in his car, parked in the woods along Valleymoor Road. He had just found out about the death of his good friend, Donald Lothario and needed her to make him laugh. But somehow the conversation turned to Siren and he found himself digging up old emotions that he had thought long since extinguished. He broke down in a way that he had never allowed himself to do in front of another person. Not even in front of Siren when his parents died. Sabina couldn't possibly have understood the complex ins and outs of his relationship with his wife but she tried to comfort him nonetheless.
In that moment, he realized a lot of things that had little to do with Siren. He told Sabina that they could not continue anymore. That it was dangerous, impossible, generally wrong and unfair to her. He told her that she was young and though it might seem cruel for him to say so now, she would get over him. What he neglected to say was that he was old and would die with the scent of fruity body spray in his nostrils. It was selfish but Troy changed his mind rather quickly. And so they found themselves shivering in the dark together again.
"This really must be the last time." Troy shocked himself with those words. He was even more shocked by her response.
"I know," Sabina murmured. Behind her, a light in the kitchen window flickered on. Troy saw the lithe figure of Shane, his second to eldest son, digging in the pantry. Troy was reminded that there were things much more important to him than his own happiness. He turned back to Sabina. A soft drizzle began to fall. By the light that flooded the lawn from the kitchen, Troy saw tears swimming in Sabina's eyes. Sabina turned away from him, embarrassed. "We can still be friends." She seemed to be talking more to herself than to him. Troy shook his head.
"No one would understand. People are already beginning to talk," he said. A sob escaped from Sabina's throat. She covered her eyes with her hands. She wasn't quite crying and to Troy, that made the gesture all the more tragic. "I'm sorry. I should have never let it go this far," he said. He'd tried to sound gentle but he knew that he was coming off frigid, even a little patronizing.
"Leave before Shane catches you out here," she moaned. Troy recognized the obvious wisdom in this but he was rooted to the spot. He leaned forward to kiss her on the cheek but she suddenly turned vicious.
"Don't touch me," she snapped. "I'll die if you touch me." Troy's lungs collapsed in on themselves. It was the same pain he felt when he went too long without seeing her. It was the pain of drowning. "Just go." Sabina turned her attention to the ground. She was pleading. A strong gust of wind blew her long black hair into her face. He wondered whether she managed to gather it away from her eyes just in time to see him, as stealthily as a cat, jumping over the Academy's wrought iron fence for the last time.
